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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29186253">I crave your mouth, your voice</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/narrativefoiltrope/pseuds/narrativefoiltrope'>narrativefoiltrope</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Wayhaven Chronicles (Interactive Fiction)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Vaginal Fingering, but this time the detective is the one teasing N (delicious isn't it?), it's poem smut y'all</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 13:54:37</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,219</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29186253</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/narrativefoiltrope/pseuds/narrativefoiltrope</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>Determined to enliven Mack’s interest in the literary pursuits, Nat returned to the volume’s table of contents to find a poem suitable for them both. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>...Oh yes, that one would do.</em>
</p><p> <em>A delicate clearing of her throat, swallowing the anticipation of the words slipping over her tongue, and then Nat began. “‘I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair.’”</em></p><p> or: mack tries to distract her girlfriend while she reads.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Female Detective/Natalie "Nat" Sewell</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>25</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>I crave your mouth, your voice</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Is that for work or for pleasure?” The question was paired with the stilling of quiet footsteps behind where she sat on the couch. </p><p>Nat kept her eyes glued to the book in her lap. This was not a new question to pass through Mack’s lips when she would find Nat in the library late at night. It was becoming routine, in so much as a beautiful distraction at the behest of a woman whose magnetism transcended reason, transcended poetry, could ever be considered routine.</p><p>Although what she was reading was not research, Nat was well ensconced in the luxuriously melancholy lines of Neruda’s sonnets and was unwilling to emerge for air just yet. If she told Mack it was work—a lie for which she had no reason other than selfish enjoyment—she knew Mack would leave her be; her lover was many things, but she certainly respected professional duties. </p><p>Instead of offering a lie, Nat hummed. An acknowledgement if not an answer.</p><p>Nat felt the back of the couch sink lower as Mack braced herself against it. Her hands appeared there on either side of Nat’s shoulders. Warmth spilled from the smaller woman’s body, making Nat’s head swim and almost tearing her focus from the page. </p><p>Mack leaned in, her head resting on Nat’s shoulder. “Natalie, I asked you a question.” Teeth grazed the shell of her ear and Nat shivered.</p><p>“And if I should tell you that this reading is strictly for pleasure, Mackenzie?” she replied, keeping her eyes on the book in front of her. The answer, calculated to tease but tempered with the use of her lover’s (oft-professed to be loathed) full name, was sure to rile the other woman.</p><p>Mack offered a low, quick growl in response, reverberating against the waves of Nat’s hair, before she ducked farther down and pressed a hot, open-mouth kiss to Nat’s jaw. Teeth soon followed, nipping the delicate skin there—an unspoken reprimand for the invocation of “Mackenzie,” but one that Nat did not mind in the slightest. </p><p>Mack pulled back a fraction and peered over Nat’s shoulders to look at the book in the other woman’s hands. “What are you reading?”</p><p>“Neruda.”</p><p>A low scoff sounded next to Nat’s ear. “How can poetry possibly be more ‘pleasurable’ than my mouth on your—”</p><p>Nat twisted around, twirling effortlessly away from the heat of the moment, to face Mack and offer her an admonishing look. Nat did not take issue with the offer itself. On the contrary, she was nearly always ready to indulge Mack if she herself was not lighting the match, starting the fire—but how she wished Mack would show restraint in her phrasing every so often. </p><p>Instead of responding to the proposition, Nat simply asked, “Shall I read to you? You may find you enjoy it.”</p><p>A resigned sigh escaped the other woman’s lips, relenting even as she protested Nat’s apparent deflection of her advances. Mack leaned down once more and kissed Nat’s neck in a way that surely would have required her to sit down if she had not already been—an entirely unsubtle reminder of what Nat was missing by insisting on poetry—and settled down on the couch next to Nat.</p><p>Determined to enliven Mack’s interest in the literary pursuits, Nat returned to the volume’s table of contents to find a poem suitable for them both.</p><p>...Oh yes, that one would do.</p><p>A delicate clearing of her throat, swallowing the anticipation of the words slipping over her tongue, and then Nat began. “‘I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair.’” </p><p>Mack, who had been lounging comfortably against a throw pillow and looking off into the middle distance, slowly turned her head to look at Nat. Nat levelled a molten gaze at the other woman, sensing—savouring—Mack’s dawning revelation of what kind of poem she had selected: the rise of gooseflesh now visible on Mack’s arms, the way her mouth dropped open slightly, the change in her heart rate. The air changed, grew charged, as Mack collapsed the distance between them and shifted closer to Nat. </p><p>The other woman’s lips beckoned to Nat but she resisted the temptation to taste them yet, despite Mack crowding her space seeking exactly that. Instead, with her free hand that didn’t hold the book, she grasped her lover’s face, long fingers capturing Mack’s chin and tilting upwards so she met Nat’s eyes. This movement also had the advantage of keeping Mack’s head firmly in place, unable to close the distance between her lips and Nat’s own.</p><p>“Patience, <em>luz de mis ojos,”</em> Nat said in a low voice as she withdrew her hand from Mack’s face and leaned back. </p><p>Mack groaned at the loss of contact. </p><p>And Nat was forced to pause. Taken in by the sound and eagerness of the other woman, she found it difficult to focus on the words on the page. Despite Nat’s best efforts—and centuries of practice, of restraint learned, restraint in which she revelled for the heightened devastation of deferred ecstasy—she placed the book down on the side table next to her and found herself drifting back towards her lover, body swaying almost of its own volition.</p><p>They met each other in the middle, movements slow. Nat took Mack’s face in both her hands this time, no longer for the purpose of delaying gratification, but rather to bring her closer; Mack reciprocated by tangling a hand in Nat’s hair and guiding her head forwards. </p><p>Their breath mingled in the shared space between them, lips meeting, breaking away, only to return with more insistence. What began in a futile attempt to hold back soon became hungry: Nat drew Mack’s lower lip into her mouth, drinking in the other woman’s taste of citrus and smoke, which lingered despite Mack having quit her cigarette habit months ago. </p><p>Nat felt Mack’s reaction before hearing her gasp, the vibrations of her jagged pulse landing on Nat’s skin in crashing waves. The intensity required Mack to surface for air. She took the opportunity to climb onto Nat’s lap, straddling the taller woman and looping her arms around Nat’s shoulders, panting slightly as she did so. </p><p>“Is reading still what you want to do right now?” Mack asked. There was an unmistakable glint in her green eyes.</p><p>How they became so thoroughly derailed from the poetry reading was not a mystery to Nat, no; it was the natural result of her and Mack’s chemistry, overwhelming in its ability to destabilise any semblance of carefully constructed order and turn the most mundane activity—though Nat would never categorise Neruda or poetry in general as ‘mundane’ by any means (Mack, however, undoubtedly would)—into something fevered. </p><p>And yet, finding a rare pause in the throes of passion, Natalie Sewell was determined to finish reading this poem.</p><p>She ran a thumb over Mack’s cheek, acutely aware of the warmth beneath the surface, and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. </p><p>“You’ll have to try harder than that, <em>mi corazón,</em> if you want to distract me,” Nat said. </p><p>Mack raised a brow. “Is that a challenge?” </p><p>“And if I should say it was?”</p><p>“Are you sure you’re up for that? You know I don’t fight fair.”</p><p>“I am well aware of your tactics,” Nat replied, laughing quietly. “And I wholeheartedly welcome them.” </p><p>Something almost dangerous flashed in Mack’s eyes. “Well then by all means, continue reading.”</p><p>Nat’s lips quirked into an amused half-smile before she picked the book back up with one hand, arm outstretched and head turned to the side to allow Mack full access to her. She returned her attention to the page. </p><p>“‘Silent and starving, I prowl through the streets,’” she continued.</p><p>It only took one line of poetry to inspire Mack to move: She slipped the open collar of Nat’s summer shirt off of her shoulder, fingertips lingering on the newly exposed skin. </p><p>“‘Bread does not nourish me, dawn disrupts me, all day’—” Nat inhaled sharply, the flow of the poem interrupted by Mack lowering her lips to Nat’s shoulder.</p><p>Starting slow, she began a trail of kisses that led to the juncture of Nat’s neck. Had the other woman’s touch not felt as it did—exquisite and ruinous; a deliberate tease, a gentle provocation—Nat would have been more annoyed by how it led her astray so soon after setting a challenge she was determined to win.</p><p>(Though perhaps she was already reaping the rewards of such a challenge. It did cross her mind.)</p><p>She gathered her resolve and began to read once more: “‘I hunt for the liquid measure of your steps.’” </p><p>Mack was intent on leaving a mark, however fleeting, on Nat’s neck. Hot breath ghosted over her skin made damp from open-mouth kisses. Shivers whispered down her spine. </p><p>She tried—and failed—to suppress a shudder. </p><p>Head tilting back ever so slightly, Nat offered Mack more space to mark, which she unhurriedly did. Her teeth nipped the delicate skin there, purple bruises blossoming and fading in the same moment, followed by her tongue soothing the sting. This was an unspoken agreement, a dance between the two of them: For all that Nat purposefully avoided the ivory of Mack’s throat, Mack lavished attention on the curve of Nat’s neck. </p><p>Nat could almost forget the reality of her existence in such moments. Yet still she desperately wanted the other woman’s lips to brand her skin in more permanent ways, longed to bear the proof of their desire, aching for what was out of her grasp.</p><p>Trying not to linger on that thought, she instead settled for the sensation of teeth and tongue expertly picking her apart. Nat felt the curve of a smile against her neck and knew that Mack could tell that she was affected. </p><p>How could she not be when faced with a wildfire? Sparks leaping and catching between them, smouldering where they settled, building to a steady burn that consumed them both.  </p><p>Bracing herself, Nat once more returned to the poem. </p><p>“‘I hunger for your sleek laugh,’—”</p><p>Deft hands moved to the front of her shirt. A quick glance up from the page revealed Mack watching her face intently as she began to work open the buttons.</p><p>“‘—your hands the color of a savage harvest, hunger for the pale stones of your fingernails’—” </p><p>The hands on her now—hands that reaped sighs and moans from her, warm through the fabric of her shirt—were not close enough. Nat wanted to feel them on her skin.</p><p>Mack finished unbuttoning Nat’s shirt. She paused to admire her handiwork—the tawny expanse of Nat’s torso, covered now in nothing but her lacy bra—before inching her hands around Nat’s bare waist and trailing them down to rest at her hips. Mack once more leaned forward, shifting on Nat’s lap, and branded her with scorching kisses, messy ones littered lightly with teeth across Nat’s chest. </p><p>Yet even with the blaze of her hands, the insistence of her mouth, Nat knew there was no abandonment in Mack’s attentions. Quite the opposite: They’d been in this position or similarly intimate ones frequently enough for Nat to recognise the tightly-controlled calculation in the other woman’s movements, each touch designed to bring her near and leave her dangling—suspended—at the precipice. </p><p>It was almost enough for Nat to consider putting an end to her own teasing if only Mack would show her the same mercy.</p><p>(Yet Nat thrived on this. They both did.)</p><p>Mack’s mouth moving lower, settling over the thin lace of Nat’s bra, elicited a gasp from Nat. The other woman tightened her grip on Nat’s hips in response. </p><p>Reading was undoubtedly going to be more difficult now.</p><p>In a thicker voice than normal, Nat continued: “‘I want to eat your skin like a whole almond.’” </p><p>Mack peeled herself off of Nat’s chest. Almost startled by the rush of cool air resulting from the loss of contact, Nat shot her a questioning look. Mack met her eyes with a heavy-lidded gaze of her own as she reached for the button of Nat’s jeans. </p><p>Hands hovered there, waiting.</p><p>A nod of affirmation from Nat and then Mack quickly—expertly—unbuttoned Nat’s jeans. A small groan escaped Nat’s lips, the anticipation building, and captured the other woman’s attention. </p><p>Mack lifted off of Nat’s lap slightly. She braced her knees on either side of Nat’s hips, leaned back into her, and returned to kissing her neck.</p><p>Nat was melting under her lover’s mouth. She did not understand how a woman so reminiscent of ice—cold to many with sharp edges unyielding—managed to feel like a blaze. She drowned, liquified, in the sensation.</p><p>A tug on her waistband dragged Nat back up to the surface. She arched her back and tilted her hips forward to let Mack pull her jeans halfway down her thighs. </p><p>“Fuck,” Mack breathed. Evidently the new lingerie Nat bought, ordered from Paris, was worth the expense.</p><p>Nat laughed quietly. “Now who’s distracting whom?” </p><p>With the hand not holding the book she reached out to touch Mack’s face, but Mack caught her wrist instead. </p><p>“Ah, ah, ah Natalie,” Mack tsked. “That’s not reading.” </p><p>She pressed a kiss to Nat’s palm in a surprisingly tender gesture before releasing her wrist. </p><p>Nat shook her head. The fondness she felt for Mack overflowed, spilling outwards into a warm smile. “Of course. Forgive me, <em>mi tesoro.”</em> </p><p>Returning her gaze to the book, Nat cleared her throat and resumed her recitation. “‘I want to eat the sunbeam flaring in your lovely body’—”</p><p>Mack teased a hand over Nat’s underwear. She pushed aside the lace panty and skated over the slickness of Nat’s arousal. </p><p><em>“Fuck,”</em> Mack repeated, this time lower, a growl working its way into the edges of the words.</p><p>Nat heard Mack’s breathing stutter a ragged inhale as she explored her. The sound shot straight to Nat’s core. </p><p>Mack’s touch was both too much and not enough, almost an ache in its lightness, but Nat resisted—for now—the urge to chase friction. </p><p>The pages of the book grew warm under her fingers, and Nat purposefully relaxed her grip in a Herculean effort to preserve the delicate leaf. She continued, “‘the sovereign nose of your arrogant face,’”—</p><p>—and found herself thankful for the line break, as Mack’s finger entered her and strangled her words, transforming them into a groan. Nat’s eyes fluttered shut, succumbing to the feeling. A low laugh from Mack told her that her lover wore a familiar, if vaguely annoying, look of pride—one made more irritating by virtue of the fact that it was deserved.</p><p>Mack began to curl her finger, moving in and out at a sinfully slow place. Nat felt the start of a familiar tension low in her belly that set her teeth on edge, her nerves on fire. </p><p>She used the hand that didn’t hold the book to grasp the couch. Growing desperate for some—<em>any</em>—kind of purchase, her fingers curled into the worn red leather. Nails anchored her as she tried to resist moving against Mack’s hand. </p><p>A gasp began the next line of poetry: “‘I want to eat the fleeting shade of your lashes,’—”</p><p>Nat bit down on her lower lip, suppressing a groan as Mack withdrew her hand. There was no time for her to adjust to the loss of contact before Mack entered her again, this time with the addition of a second finger. She felt her head tip back, lips parted, as stars began to cluster behind her eyes. </p><p>The other woman set a pace that was achingly slow—quick enough to stoke the fire inside her, but stopping just short of a full blaze. Words began to swim on the page in front of Nat as fingers splayed and curled inside her, so close to where Nat needed her and yet not close enough.</p><p>When Nat risked looking at Mack—a risk for the mere reason that meeting her lover’s eyes (green swallowed by the black of blown pupils, a look of pride and want there) was almost always guaranteed to bring her that much closer to the edge if not tip her over entirely in such moments, and Nat resolved herself to resist becoming undone this close to the end of the stanza, this close to the poem’s conclusion, even if her body was screaming for it (and it was, it was)—<em>oh.</em> </p><p>When she risked looking at Mack, it wasn’t Mack’s eyes that stole her breath, but the motion of Mack’s hips rocking in time with her hand. Nat felt the other woman’s temperature rise, inhaled the scent of her arousal, erratic heartbeat landing on her own overheated skin, and she almost burst into flames. </p><p>Nat rolled her lips together before she continued reading, which now felt like an almost insurmountable task. Her voice low, hoarse, read, “‘and I pace around hungry, sniffing the twilight,’—” </p><p>“Hungry” was not an adequate word to describe the depth of Nat’s desire for the brilliant, alluring, utterly frustrating woman in front of—inside of—her, yet she could not fault Neruda for this turn of phrase. How, after all, could he have possibly accounted for Mackenzie Halliday?</p><p>Her appreciation for her lover was not tempered by the situation in which Nat currently found herself: about to burst out of her skin, about to leap over the precipice, but kept intact, kept suspended by the steady pace of Mack’s fingers that refused to increase speed. </p><p>No, her appreciation was not tempered in the slightest, but her patience was tested. Nat felt herself growing desperate. </p><p>Her frustration grew nearly palpable in the air between them. </p><p>Nat tried to shift in search of release. This quickly proved to be a miscalculation as Mack stilled her hand (and her own hips), shot Nat a warning look, and threatened to withdraw entirely.</p><p>“Read, Natalie.”</p><p>She could only comply, the last two lines on the tip of her tongue: “‘hunting for you, for your hot heart, like a puma in the barrens of Quitratue.’” </p><p>Nat would have celebrated this accomplishment—reaching the conclusion of a poem she wanted to share with Mack (and that she could consider a simple task as such spoke to her state)—if she was more than frayed nerve endings, over-sensitive skin, liquid longing. </p><p>Closing the book gently and placing it down on the side table, she returned her gaze to Mack, who maintained her infuriatingly slow pace.</p><p>Nat watched as a look of faux innocence crept onto her lover’s face. “Are you finished?” </p><p>She could only laugh, a tinge of hysteria colouring the sound. “Not even close.”</p><p>Mack threw her a wicked grin. She suddenly—finally, mercifully, graciously—increased the speed of her fingers and brought Nat closer to her release. Nat reached out to Mack to stabilise herself, grasping her shoulders, her waist, anywhere she could touch.</p><p>Embers deep in her stomach became molten, pooled at her core. Threatened to set her alight from the inside out.</p><p>Her breathing hitched as Mack ran her thumb over her clit in small circles—and the tension inside Nat snapped, her skin feverish, head thrown back in a moan somewhere between “Mackenzie” and a prayer in a dead language. </p><p>She burst into flames, a little death by immolation.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>the poem nat reads is sonnet xi by pablo neruda! it's wonderful, go read it without the gratuitous smut. also this is my first time writing smut so uh. there we have it lmao.</p><p>thank you to @thenshe_appeared and @evil_bunny_king for reading and commenting, and thank you to @qbrujas for helping with spanish terms of endearment &lt;3</p><p>come scream about twc with me on tumblr (@narrativefoiltrope)!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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